


It's Okay to Let Yourself Feel

by northernist



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Damian Wayne Feels, Dick Grayson is Batman, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Panic Attacks, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25817905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernist/pseuds/northernist
Summary: Damian struggles with his inner turmoil, and he manages to scare Dick half to death in the process.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 170





	It's Okay to Let Yourself Feel

Dick loves Damian. Really, he does. It’s just that sometimes, the kid manages to grate on every single one of his nerves. Especially on a night like this, where the two are butting heads. _Again_. 

Their patrol together hadn’t gone as expected, which is starting to become a pattern these last few weeks. Dick doesn’t really remember the details of _why_ it happened, but something must have set Damian off. Maybe it was something he did – or probably something else entirely, he’ll never know – but inevitably bickering had ensued. From there it bled into an argument, which then affected their normally in-sync fighting, ultimately letting the bad guys get away. 

And the crux of this situation: Damian’s lack of cooperation. 

To put it simply, Dick isn’t exactly in a festive mood after what transpired tonight. How can he be, when he’s trying his best to not only carry the weight of the Batman mantle on his shoulders as well as personal problems back in Bludhaven, but also simultaneously dealing with a kid who acts more petulantly than he realizes? Apparently his ‘best’ doesn’t seem to be working. 

When they exit the Batmobile Damian slams the passenger door with as much force as he clearly intended to and stomps off toward the changing room. 

Palpable tension hangs in the stagnant air of the Batcave. Dick, patience already waning for the umpteenth time of the night, pinches his nose in an attempt to alleviate his growing headache. He needs to put his foot down before things spiral even more out of control.

“Damian, we need to have a word,” he says, slipping the mask over his head. 

“We don’t need to have a word about _anything_ ,” Damian bites back, continuing his angry beeline toward the other room. 

“ _Robin,_ ” Dick orders firmly, causing Damian to falter in his step. It’s practically instinct for Robin to listen to Batman when he uses that tone. Damian stubbornly acqueises, pivoting on his heel to face the older vigilante. Dick looks about ready to burst a blood vessel as he begins, “What you did tonight was unacceptable. You disobeyed my orders, Damian. _Again._ For the third time this week.”

“You would have been riddled with bullets if I’d listened to you. But I intervened, saving your life,” Damian retorts.

“That only happened because you were the one that put me in a dangerous position by not following orders in the first place,” Dick shoots back, mildly annoyed. 

Damian gives a small _tt_ while crossing his arms, and this only manages to exacerbate Dick’s already throbbing headache. 

“Alright then, I guess it’s come to this,” he sighs, massaging his temples. “Since you’re clearly not willing to follow orders, you’re benched for the next week until you can get your act together.” 

Damian’s eyes briefly widen under the domino mask before narrowing to slits. His hands curl into fists as he shouts, “You can’t do that, Grayson! Batman _needs_ Robin!”

“From what I’ve been seeing lately, Batman hasn’t exactly performed his best with Robin by his side. Now go shower and head to bed. You’ve done enough for tonight, Damian. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” And with that, Dick begins walking toward the Batcomputer. But what Damian says next makes him stop dead in his tracks.

“You’re not my father. You have no right telling me what I can or cannot do,” he spits, and the remark makes Dick flinch more than he’d like to admit. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound. 

Bruce’s absence is a touchy subject for everyone in the family, and for Damian to utilize it as some sort of weapon for argument’s sake is like a slap to the face. _It stings._

Dick quickly regains his composure, gripping the chair to the computer. 

“You’re right. I’m not Bruce. I never _will_ be Bruce.” He turns to face Damian. “But I am your brother, and as your older brother I _do,_ in fact, get to tell you what to do. So clean up and go to bed, or I’ll add one more week to your off period.”

The air fills with an uncomfortable, almost unbearably long silence as the two exchange stares (though Damian’s is more of a glare). Then, the sound of Damian’s obnoxiously loud stomping fills the cave as he storms off and shuts the clock with just as much force as he used on the Batmobile door, leaving Dick alone. 

_So much for things not ‘spiraling even more out of control_.’ He sighs, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“That was quite the argument.”

Scratch that. He’s apparently _not_ alone. Taken by surprise – and also a tad bit startled – Dick looks up to find Alfred peering down from above the railing, a duster and pan in both hands. 

“You were listening the entire time, weren’t you?” Dick asks with a frown. Alfred merely nods. 

Dick shakes his head, running a gloved hand down his face with an exasperated groan. “God, Alfred, what am I gonna do? I’m not qualified for handling these kinds of situations. It’s like walking on eggshells every time we go out on patrol!” 

He hangs his head low. “We’ve been doing so well up until this point. Then Bruce just, well,” he waves his hands in the air, “ _dies,_ and Damian does a complete one-eighty on me.”

“Master Damian seems to be having his own personal issues at the moment, just as you are. You and I both know he has more trouble than most with how he responds to his emotions due to his upbringing,” Alfred says. “Though might I suggest using a different approach other than sidelining him, Master Dick? He has only recently lost his father, as have you.”

Dick lets himself fall into the chair to the Batcomputer, utterly drained and downright exhausted. 

“Yeah, well, it’s starting to feel like I’m losing a brother, too.”

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


It’s nearly two a.m. when Damian makes the rash decision to sneak out, and two fifteen a.m. when he slips out his bedroom window and into the pouring rain of the night. 

Being in the Manor for more than a year and having attempted to escape multiple times has made him acquainted with every trap and obstacle thrown his way; so much so that it’s a breeze to maneuver in and around them. The only tricky part is bypassing the security cameras, which only requires careful footwork and quick movement, all of which come easily to Damian. 

Leaving the Manor grounds is practically a cakewalk now, and the only way Grayson will ever be able to figure out he’s left is if he goes into his room and notices the vacant bed and missing Robin suit.

And so what if he does? Damian doesn’t care if Grayson realizes he’s gone. At least, he makes himself believe that he doesn’t care. He _shouldn’t_ care what Grayson will think of him sneaking out, or what he already thinks of him now. But his chest, for some odd reason, begs to differ. It constricts when he thinks back to not what Grayson said, but the look on his face. A look Damian is intimately familiar with, having received it countless times from Mother, Grandfather, and sometimes even Father. But seeing it on Grayson makes his chest ache terribly.

Damian never thought he’d see Grayson as disappointed as he was. Disappointed in _him._

He squanders the thought and grits his teeth, shooting his grappling hook into the Gotham city sky and taking off. 

Tonight, Damian is going to do the one thing he knows best. He’s going to fight crime alone and _win_ , orders be damned. 

  
  


*

  
  
  


It takes Dick only an hour to deliberate over his and Damian’s argument before he’s already on his feet and heading up to Damian’s bedroom to apologize.

He’d taken Alfred’s words into consideration and well, what do you know? Alfred’s right, _as he always is._ It’s just that since Dick has been busy juggling so many different issues at once, he hasn’t really had time to realize that Damian is struggling with his own, too.

_No_ , he thinks, pausing in his step. It’s because he hasn’t been paying attention to Damian when he needed him the most like he should have been, like he _should be doing_ . Damian’s disobedience is only a minor part in a bigger problem, and Dick’s been too caught up in his own head to realize that his little brother is hurting _._ He should have known. All the signs have been there since Bruce’s funeral. 

The thought makes him feel absolutely terrible, but it’s little too late to start reprimanding himself for his inaction. He’s on his way to apologize and make things right. From now on, things are going to be different.

He approaches Damian’s bedroom door and knocks twice.

“Dami?” he calls softly. “Can we talk now?” Seconds go by, and silence remains the only response. Dick tries again.

“Damian?” Again, nothing. Of course he’s getting the silent treatment. He sighs, grabbing hold of the doorknob and slowly opening the door.

What he expects to see walking into the room is a sulky preteen who’s ready to hurl a mountain of insults his way. Instead he’s greeted by the sight of an empty bed and a cracked open window. 

It doesn’t take long for worry to burgeon in the pit of Dick’s stomach, and he’s already racing back down to the Batcave without a minute to spare.

  
  


*

  
  


Damian crouches on the lip of a large building, surveying the area below with scrutinous eyes. He has located a warehouse residing on Gotham Harbor, presumably abandoned based on its derelict appearance, that’s said to be an area known for having suspicious activity. Which sounds about right, because the place is practically crawling with sketchy men in balaclavas as they continue to unload boxes of all sizes from trucks. _A crime syndicate smuggling in drugs,_ Damian surmises. 

His eyes scan the vicinity once more for an opening before he stands. His cape billows in the wind from the brewing storm above, rain pelting hard against his uniform. A single lightning bolt erupts across the dark sky, followed by the tumultuous rumble of thunder. He takes one small step over the edge and drops down below.

Damian lands beside one of the cargo trucks. Though his arrival must not have been as silent as he anticipated, because one of the masked men snaps their head in his direction. He mentally berates himself for the mistake, but it’s too late to rectify his foolish error. 

“What was that?” a female voice shouts. 

“It’s the Batman’s kid!” a burly man exclaims. 

“Any sign of the Bat?” one asks, terror in his voice. 

“Doesn’t look like it,” another chimes in.

There’s a confident laugh. “Heh, then this’ll be easy.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Damian says from behind one of the larger men. He doesn’t give the man much of a chance to react, clocking him right upside the head.

“Somebody get the brat already, dammit!” the same woman from before screams, and soon multiple men brandishing guns are closing in on him from all sides like a pack of ravenous wolves. 

Although the start of this situation wasn’t exactly ideal, he knows he’ll be able to manage a group of low-level criminals. His hand lowers to reach for the batarangs in his utility belt before pausing as he instead contemplates another weapon of choice. 

Normally, using his sword in a fight was not permitted. Father always said it was too dangerous a weapon for close combat, and once Grayson took over he regurgitated the same idiotic spiel. Begrudgingly Damian had settled for batarangs as a suitable replacement, but seeing as Grayson isn’t here to tell him what he can or can’t use...

Mouth pulling into a defiant smirk, he unsheathes the katana from his side and lunges toward the advancing group.

The sword is an extension of his being. It’s as rich as the blood in his veins and as primal as his heartbeat; it flows like water with every swipe and thrust he delivers against the criminals’ weapons. He propels himself forward with every move, calves burning with lactic acid and muscles aching from exertion, as his sword clashes with the cool metal of their guns. He deftly evades every barrage of bullets that come his way with quick flips and ducks, incapacitating criminals left and right with finesse.

Though as time goes on, Damian unknowingly allows his inner turmoil to guide his movements

Every punch he throws is fueled by the release of his frustration, every kick delivered with anger, and every swipe of his sword with an indescribable feeling that’s been gnawing away at him ever since his father’s death. 

The emotions blind him. Inattentiveness plagues his form, making him more susceptible to blows that should be easy to parry. He feels himself becoming sloppier by the minute, and this only angers him all the more. 

The last criminal he encounters – a criminal he seems to have sorely underestimated a few minutes ago – manages to exploit his errors and gets the upper hand. He gyrates around Damian when he fails to dodge, slamming the young vigilante onto the concrete and rendering him breathless. Damian wheezes from the collision. His head swims and his ribs burn as he writhes from underneath the large man, seething. 

He stills when something cold and hard digs deep into the side of his neck. His mind registers the object almost instantly and he quickly grabs hold of the gun before it has the chance to fire, chucking it to the side. The criminal grunts in confusion, and Damian kicks the man off with as much force as he can, sending him skidding backward against the slippery ground. 

Slowly he stands over the fallen man. A man that has come closer to killing him than most. Narrow eyes avert to the gun that lies on the ground and a snarl rips from Damian’s throat. Without thinking he lifts his sword above the criminal, inches away from piercing his chest, blade ready to strike–

All it takes is Father’s face to flash across his vision before every drop of bloodlust vanishes from his body like a fleeting shadow. He staggers backward as if punched in the stomach, katana clattering to the ground. 

Every fiber in Damian’s being freezes. He had almost killed him. Almost broke the code. His sword was a mere few inches away from reneging on the promise he’d made to Father. 

The sound of footsteps approaching from behind snaps him back to reality, but it’s already too late. Just as he pivots around to deflect the next attack he realizes his katana isn’t in his hand and receives a face full of fist. 

Apparently there was one more criminal he’d unaccounted for. Another stupid mistake that may end up costing him his life. 

Damian stumbles about like a drunkard ensnared in a stupor, desperately trying to regain his footing until he’s met with another blow to the stomach that all but sends his knees buckling. Bile threatens to rise in his throat, and he hacks up blood upon the second punch. He does his best to muster all the strength he has left to stay standing. As the scion of both the Wayne and al Ghul names he will _not_ lose this fight. As the heir to both thrones he _can't._

The man is shouting angrily now, but Damian can’t decipher what he’s saying over the ringing in his ears and cacophonous downpour. Though he manages to catch only a few words before he’s being dragged by the hood of his cape:

“Toss…-to the water!”

He’s given no time to react. No time to put up a struggle or to fight back. The ground suddenly disappears beneath him, and he’s falling. Shock mixed with excruciating pain render his muscles useless, and he isn’t fast enough to unlatch the grappling hook from his belt before he’s plummeting into the harbor back first, knocking the air out of his lungs. 

Adrenaline courses through his veins as survival kicks in. He bites his lip so hard blood is sure to be drawn, fighting against both the pain and water weighing him down. It’s a futile effort; he’s only sinking deeper.

His eyes sting from the salty water. His chest is on fire. Everything hurts. 

Damian doesn’t know when it happens, but his body finally stops trying. 

Mother and Grandfather would be severely disappointed in him – angry, even – for losing what should have been an attainable victory. Father, too. 

_And_ _Grayson_. 

He’d lost. He’d failed them. 

Maybe this is for the best. Maybe this way, he’ll no longer be just another burden Grayson has to carry on his shoulders. If he’s lucky, he’ll be seeing Father very soon. 

Darkness encroaches on his vision. Then, the soft sound of a distant splash in the water above. There's a blurry silhouette of a person with outstretched arms who appears to be getting closer and closer, barely out of reach...

His vision splinters black. Like sand through a sieve, consciousness slips from his body, and he finally succumbs to the dark. 

  
  


*

  
  


The first thing he realizes when he comes to is that everything is dry and warm, which is a stark contrast to the freezing water he’d plummeted into just… a few minutes ago? an hour? He doesn’t remember, everything’s too fuzzy. The next thing he realizes, though, is that there’s another presence with him, and they’re wrapping some sort of rough material around his leg–

Damian jolts harshly, startling the other person in the room. Slowly he peels his eyes open as he continues thrashing on a couch. A couch? His fingers trail over what feels like tattered, ripped-up leather, and his eyes desperately strain to focus on a worn couch that for some reason seems vaguely familiar…

“ _Jesus Christ_ – Calm the fuck down, kid. I’m trying to help!”

The vulgarity paired with an all too familiar voice clicks two and two together for Damian. He stills momentarily. 

“Todd?” he rasps out and immediately regrets speaking, choking on a cough. His throat feels scratchy and terrible and gross. It's almost hard to talk. Almost.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Jason responds matter-of-factly. “And don’t move, brat, or you’ll reopen my perfectly done stitches.”

Damian complies without protest – a surprise to Jason, really. He courses a hand through his wet and unruly hair, tongue poking out in concentration as he focuses once more on wrapping gauze around the kid’s battered leg.

“You took quite the beating, I’ll tell you that,” Jason says as he rips off a piece of tape with his teeth and applies it over the bandage. Damian nods, and the movement is lethargic and so unlike the flopping-like-a-fish-out-of-water he did just a minute ago. Jason unwinds a second roll of gauze, moving to the opposite leg. Meanwhile, Damian regards the room he’s in.

“Where am I?” he asks, voice still a bit hoarse.

Jason meticulously tends to a wound as he responds, “My place.”

Recognition settles over Damian. The couch definitely makes a lot more sense now, as do the other things in the room. He’s only ever been to Jason’s apartment two times; none of which were to visit. The first time was a deliberate break in on his part. The second, a rendezvous point for patrol. And both times Damian would complain about the utterly disgusting condition of said couch, which always annoyed Jason to no end.

His fingers recoil from the cushions, and he stares up at the ceiling.

“What happened?”

Jason briefly stops, swiveling from where he's seated on the coffee table to look down at Damian. “I saved your ass from sleeping with the fishes. Literally. That’s what happened.” He picks back up where he left off, allowing Damian to mull over this information. 

Frowning, Damian closes his eyes. Although there’s a haze of disorientation that clouds his memory, he can vividly remember every sensation that had flooded his nerves. He squirms uneasily when he tries to recall what happened, almost reliving the exact moment. Agonizing pain lighting every nerve on fire, water rushing into his lungs, _asphyxiation closing in from all around_. Blunt nails dig deep into the cushions of the couch and his eyes snap open as he forcefully drags himself back to the present. 

“I was… I was drowning.”

“Yeah, you were. And I thought I told you to stop moving,” Jason says, but Damian is too engrossed in his own thoughts to even process the words.

Had Jason not saved him, Damian would have been embraced by death with open arms. He was going to die, and for a moment he was okay with it. The fact makes his stomach churn uneasily. 

Without warning he’s abruptly pulled out of his thoughts with a jolt when the needle in his leg pierces too deep. He hears the faint string of curses that slip from Jason’s mouth as he fumbles with the first aid kit at his side. 

“The Ibuprofen I gave you fifteen minutes ago should kick in any second. That’ll help relieve some of your discomfort for a bit, and _maybe_ even get you to stop squirming.”

Damian hums. He’s about to tell Jason that he’s endured much worse in the League – nearly tenfold to the amount of pain he’s feeling now – but he holds his tongue. On second thought, it’s probably best to refrain from reopening old wounds.

His hand moves to settle on his chest, and he immediately notices the lack of fine kevlar that is his Robin costume. He angles his head downward only to find he’s wearing one of Jason’s baggy t-shirts that looks about ready to swallow him whole. 

His lips pull into a dissatisfied frown. _Surely not all of Todd’s articles of clothing are this insipid and disgustingly bright. What’s this type of shirt called again? Tie-dye?_

“These colors are absolutely garish,” Damian mumbles, eliciting a laugh from the older vigilante. 

“Says the kid who dresses like an overly saturated traffic light to go fight crime.”

Damian scowls with a _tt_.

“...How did you find me?” he finally asks.

Jason, already finished tending to Damian’s injuries, rests his palms on both sides of the coffee table. He leans back as he talks, “Goldie sent out a distress signal on your behalf. Said something about you leaving your comm and disabling your tracker, so he had no way of getting a hold of you. Scared him shitless.” 

A tiny seed of remorse sprouts in Damian’s stomach. _Grayson was that worried about him?_ He shifts uncomfortably, but this goes unnoticed by Jason as he carries on.

“Lucky for you, I was already dealing with some business around the area. And since Timbers is out of town, I was the one who had to drag you out of that disgusting water. I let Dick know as soon as I got back to my apartment, so he should be close to getting here any minute. In the meantime...” He pauses before crossing his arms, eyeing Damian suspiciously as he embarks on another train of thought. 

“What I want to know is why _you_ didn’t send a distress signal yourself. Not only that, but why you were out there, _alone_.”

“Grayson and I had an… altercation of sorts,” Damian starts.

“Color me surprised,” Jason deadpans. Damian shoots him a glare, but he ignores it, continuing, “But that doesn’t sound like the real reason you decided not to send a distress signal in the first place. There’s more to it, I can tell. So, spill.”

“It’s as I said. We fought. I then fled, and I threw myself into what it is I do best: fighting.” Damian purses his lips, fingers now fiddling with the hem of his shirt as he adds, “But things took a turn for the worse. I acted carelessly, _foolishly,_ and let one criminal get the better of me. He...”

The words drift along with Damian’s mind as the memory surges back in full force, hitting him like a ton of bricks. It throws him right back to the moment at Gotham Harbor where he loomed over the fallen man, his knuckles bleached white as he wielded the katana just above his sternum. One swift movement of his arms is all it took. 

One swift movement of his arms, and he would have taken that man’s life.

A distant crack of thunder from outside shakes the apartment, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Blood pounds deafeningly in his ears. He can feel every droplet of sweat that rivulets down his clammy skin, every thump of his beating heart, and every gulp of air that just isn’t enough; it’s as if all his senses have been dialed up to eleven. 

“Woah, Damian, _hey,_ ” Jason exclaims, and it doesn’t take long until realization dawns on his face. He sees the signs as clear as day. The tremble in Damian’s hands, his quickened breathing, the confusion etched in his face. _Shit, he’s having a panic attack._

Pushing himself off the table Jason kneels beside Damian. The kid props himself up on one elbow, eyes frantically darting from place to place as he tries to lift himself off the couch. Jason gingerly places a hand on Damian’s shoulder to lower him back down and _God_ , Damian’s practically shaking in his skin _._

“It’s okay,” he consoles calmly, voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re alright, I’ve got you.”

Although this does little to quell Damian’s panic, Jason continues anyway. He’s experienced his fair share of panic attacks before, and while over the years he’s gotten better at reducing them, they’ve never really gone away completely. However he knows that every time he feels the oncoming of one, Roy is almost always by his side to help assuage his nerves, even if it’s just with the comfort of words. 

“Damian, breathe,” Jason says, and Damian really does try his best to. He takes in one shuddering breath and exhales another out shakily. He repeats this a few more times, and the tightness that had built its way up between Jason’s shoulders unravels as he notices Damian’s breathing becoming deeper and more prolonged with every passing second. 

“Yeah, that’s it. In and out. Slow and steady.”

“ _It hurts,_ ” Damian chokes out, and all Jason can do is rub circles into the kid’s arm as he rides it out. 

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

The panic attack is short lived, thankfully, and when Damian’s breathing returns back to normal, Jason ever so tentatively retracts his hand from the kid’s arm. 

They sit in mutual silence for the remainder of time until Dick arrives. 

  
  
  


*

  
  


The ride back to the Cave is unpleasant, to say the least. Damian keeps to himself most of the time, his eyes glued to the side window. Occasionally Dick will look over to ask if he’s alright, out of force of habit, and Damian always responds with nothing more than a perfunctory nod. The air between them is so thick with tension Dick thinks he might actually suffocate. Although the absence of arguing is a welcome respite, there’s no denying that there are still loose ends from earlier that need to be mended. 

They don’t stay long in the Batcave, relocating up to Damian’s bedroom only just after arriving. Damian remains eerily quiet as he makes his way up the stairs and rounds the corner to his room, gripping tightly to the Walmart bag Jason had thoughtfully stuffed his drenched Robin suit in. Dick trails not too far behind, which makes it easy for him to notice the slight limp in Damian’s step that he tries his best to conceal. 

The first thing Damian does when he enters the room is toss the bag onto the floorboard before sitting on the edge of his bed, while Dick settles for simply standing.

Alfred, who is still in the process of drying the rain water that had seeped through the window, flits his eyes back and forth between both boys. “I’ll draw a bath for Master Damian while you two have a very much needed conversation,” he says, soon disappearing from out of the bedroom.

When the door shuts, Dick is first to pierce through the stiff silence.

“ _Dammit_ , Damian!” he all but shouts. “I thought you were going to die!” 

Contrition contorts every muscle in Damian’s face, and he has so many things he could say, so many things he _wants_ to say, but he lets them all die on the tip of his tongue. His fists ball into the sheets as he finally pulls his eyes away from his lap and meets Dick’s.

All frustration from earlier nearly dissipates from Dick as he looks into the red rimmed eyes of his brother. There’s the faintest tremble in Damian’s lower lip as he forces out through clenched teeth, “ _I_ _’m afraid of losing you_.”

Dick goes rigid. His mouth parts, but no words come out. _Where the hell is this coming from…?_

Lowering his head once more Damian screws his eyes shut, as if guilty of his sudden outburst. “I’m afraid of losing you just like Father… and I’ve been acting out of turn in hopes that you would distance yourself from me.”

Shock bleeds to confusion. “Why on earth would you–”

“In the League personal attachments were either seen as something waiting to be exploited, or a weakness that was heavily frowned upon,” Damian interrupts, his voice hushed; it's almost hard to discern it from the torrential downpour outside. “After I joined the family, I thought I’d set aside that mentality. Then Father dies, and I don’t think I can endure the thought of you dying and leaving me, too.”

Dick can only stare. There it is. A vulnerability that peeks through the cracks of the walls he’d built back up around himself since Bruce’s funeral; finally the foundation comes crumbling down. Damian capitulates to the onslaught of emotions that slam into him, choking on a sob. 

“ _I_ _’m sorry. Please don't be disappointed.”_

It happens so fast Dick barely registers the movement as his body compels him forward, and he’s seated beside Damian and wrapping his arms around the boy in less than a second. Damian doesn’t shrivel away or even struggle in his embrace, rather he leans into it, accepting Dick’s comforting hold as another sob wracks his small frame. 

“I'm not disappointed in you, Damian, and you don’t have to worry about me going anywhere,” Dick mumbles into his hair. “I don’t plan on leaving any time soon, you have my word.”

He pulls away, placing his hands on both of Damian’s trembling shoulders. “I want you to know that it’s okay to let yourself feel, Damian. Keeping your emotions pent-up like this isn’t healthy. You’re not a machine. You’re human.”

Damian gives a small nod, and the tears begin to subside. Dick, unable to resist another hug, envelopes him in an embrace once more. Again Damian doesn’t fight it, but he doesn’t go so far as to wrap his arms around, either. Well, a half hug is still a hug regardless.

“Just promise me you won’t pull a stunt like that ever again.” The head of disheveled black hair below his chin bobs up and down. He’ll take that as an ‘I promise.’

They remain together for a while, both finding solace in the company of each other. Admittedly, there’s a tiny, selfish part of Dick that doesn’t want this to end. What brings him back to his senses, though, is the smell of salty seawater and dry blood that invades his nose. Dick nudges Damian a little in an attempt to grab his attention. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “You’ve got that warm bath Alfred started that’s waiting for you. How about we go upstairs and focus on that for now?” 

He’s met with no response. 

“Dami?” 

Dick glances down, only to be met with a face that’s lax with sleep. The steady rise and fall of Damian’s chest is comforting; it anchors Dick in the moment. Tangible evidence that his little brother is here, breathing and well and _alive_ in his arms.The warmth from his body emanates through Dick’s shirt as he cradles him close to his chest, relishing in one of few rare occasions he gets to see Damian so close and vulnerable. Dick smiles, carding a hand through the kid’s still slightly damp hair. 

The bath can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Dick and Jason are good bros. Tim is, too, but as Jason said he's unavailable... which basically translates to I couldn't fit him in this fic. I do have a good fic idea for him that I'll be getting to work on shortly. Also, I was so close to posting this in time for Damian's birthday, but I'm an hour late. Absolutely tragic. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and please feel free to leave a comment, I really do appreciate any and all. :)
> 
> (Edit as of August 16th - I had to fix a few minor errors, but they should be patched up now!)


End file.
